


it’s not as easy (as willing it all to be right)

by DasWarSchonKaputt



Series: collapse into me (tired with joy ) [1]
Category: Glee
Genre: Blaine is the kind of friend that makes you value plausible deniability whenever possible, First Son!Kurt, M/M, President Burt Hummel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-17
Updated: 2014-10-17
Packaged: 2018-02-21 13:40:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,717
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2470280
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DasWarSchonKaputt/pseuds/DasWarSchonKaputt
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After an incident during his father's re-election campaign, Kurt Hummel -- both hailed and detracted by the press as the first openly gay First Son -- transfers schools to Dalton Academy. Between the feelings of betrayal lingering from his time at William McKinley Prep, his equally persistent and emotionless security detail and his jock roommate, Kurt's not sure it can get much worse.</p><p>It gets worse.</p><p>And then he meets Blaine.</p>
            </blockquote>





	it’s not as easy (as willing it all to be right)

_[How does one accurately describe Burt Hummel, the current President of the United States? The media, for one, seems to be in two minds about this man. He has been both hailed as a self-made man and dismissed as opportunistic and vulgar. His supporters call him a democratic icon; his detractors call him a closet conservative. What is clear, however, is that the general public love him…]_

Click.

_[…Through their phenomenal popularity, the Hummels have become a model of the modern family. Indeed, Carole Hummel is not President Hummel’s first wife, nor is President Hummel her first husband. She and her son moved into the family during President Hummel’s 2004 campaign for the United States Senate…]_

Click.

_[…But the real focus of President Hummel’s recent successful re-election campaign was his son, Kurt Hummel. At aged sixteen the younger Hummel became the first openly gay first son after pictures of him and another boy kissing were sold to the press…]_

Click.

_[…President Hummel reacted with anger and betrayal to the ‘outing’ of his son as a homosexual, telling the press that “there will be no statement from Kurt, and no statement from the White House, other than me standing here today, and making sure you all understand just how bitterly disappointed I am in the perpetrators of this incident.” Some have expressed suspicion that the reveal of Kurt Hummel’s sexuality was a publicity stunt – potentially from either party – but these claims have yet to be substantiated.]_

Click.

* * *

 

There are no words in the English language to accurately describe just how aggressively Kurt really does not want to be here. Okay, correction: there are no words in the English language _suitable for polite company_ that accurately depict how much Kurt would rather be anywhere _but_ here.

Here, as it turns out, is in the principal’s office at Dalton Academy for Boys – _Young Men,_ the brochure had said, but the inscription above the entrance reads otherwise – and wondering if any of the faculty know or care just how completely overdone the whole wooden panels, mahogany desk, expensive vase vibe thing they have going here is. The unabashed opulence of the place turns something uneasily in Kurt’s stomach and, not for the first time in his life, he feels horribly out of his depth.

Swallowing his unease, Kurt resists the urge to shift in his seat, and waits for the principal – Dr Edward Tate, as the bronze nameplate on his desk reads – to finish reading his file, which he guesses must make for something of an interesting read.

Kurt’s psychologist would probably say that his tendency to cycle through extra-curriculars with frightening rapidity is a symptom of his dysfunctional family life, and she may just be right. It’s certainly not normal to switch from head cheerleader to a member of the programming club to the vice president of the home economics society, but it’s just what Kurt does.

Did.

Whatever.

Apart from his impressive list of extra curriculars, there’s also Kurt’s disciplinary record to consider. Given Kurt’s place on the honour roll and his timetable of mostly AP classes, it’s surprisingly colourful. Most of it is simple stuff – the high school equivalent of getting caught littering – like talking back to teachers and dress-code violations, but there are a couple of things that Kurt knows must seem eyebrow-raising to say the least.

And then, of course, there’s the incident that kick-started this whole mess, even if Kurt’s really none too eager to think about that.

Dalton will still take him, though. Even if Kurt had been found to be running an illegal organ-trafficking ring, Principal Tate would still take him.

After all, you don’t say no when the President of the United States asks you for a personal favour.

“Well,” Principal Tate says, closing the file in front of him. “Everything seems to be in order.”

Kurt briefly wonders if the file that Principal Tate just read was actually _his._ “Mm,” he hums noncommittally.

“My secretary has already put together a timetable for you,” Principal Tate informs Kurt. “With grades like yours, I doubt you’ll find it difficult to soon nab a place on the honour roll.”

When Kurt doesn’t move to comment, Principal Tate moves on. “Lights out in the dormitories is at eleven o’clock each night, and all mealtimes are allocated by rota. I presume your … _private security_ will be able to take care of themselves?”

 _It’s not private security_ – the words are on the tip of Kurt’s tongue, but he bites them back. He knows enough about authority figures to know that they rarely take well to being corrected, and it’s not worth it over something that is simply semantics.

Dressed in the old cliché of a dark suit and opaque sunglasses, Agent Michael Chang stands behind Kurt with all the presence of a brick wall. At forty-something years old, the professional bullet-shield is Kurt’s father’s latest gift to his son, and is already showing all the signs of being a complete non-entity so far as personality is concerned. Trying to initiate conversation with Agent Chang is, as Kurt has repeatedly proved to himself, pointless.

“He’ll be fine,” Kurt answers when Agent Chang doesn’t so much as twitch a muscle in his mouth. “They work shifts, so it’s not like he’s going to collapse of sleep deprivation.”

“Good,” Principal Tate says. “That’s good.”

There’s an awkward silence, one which Principal Tate seems to occupy by staring deeply into Kurt’s eyes in what Kurt suspects is a botched attempt at an Albus Dumbledore impersonation. Kurt waits, once more refusing to shift in his seat despite his discomfit. “Can I go now?” he eventually asks.

“Oh,” Principal Tate says, blinking, as if the notion that Kurt might need to actually attend lessons had _slipped his mind_. “Of course, of course.”

It was probably a failed attempt from Principal Tate at networking, Kurt muses. It’s something that he’s been on the other end of more times than he can count – there’s a list of people longer than his arm who would be prepared to try and reach his father through Kurt – but it’s not really something that Kurt cares for particularly. He’s never made it easy for people to use him like that and he doesn’t plan to. It’s rare – phenomenally rare – for Kurt to meet anyone that he’s prepared to strip away his protective walls for.

He had, though.

Met them. People he trusted.

But.

But then his father ran for re-election and a group of mercenary Pulitzer-pushers destroyed everything he had worked so hard to build in a matter of _seconds._

And Kurt was left, reeling and out of control, and all he could do was look out at his group of friends – people he _trusted_ – and think, _Which one of you was it?_

And it’s awful. It’s just plain awful, because Kurt knows that to them he was never a person – he was a story, a by-line, a claim to fame – and he never asked for this. It wasn’t _his_ choice.

But it’s the way it is. And Kurt’s not selfish enough to try and change it.

So Kurt smiles, and shakes Principal Tate’s hand, and thanks him for all his help. Then, he turns and walks out of the office without so much as a looking back.

* * *

 

Kurt’s roommate – a nice enough chunk of walking muscle mass by the name of Ethan – is suitably star-struck to discover that he’s going to be living with the President’s son for the next semester.

“Just, whoa,” Ethan says for the _third time already,_ _God_. “Like, I’m rooming with American royalty.”

Kurt quirks an eyebrow, unimpressed. “I’m pretty sure that the whole point of America being a republic is that we don’t have royalty,” he replies dryly. Ethan either misses the slight hint of animosity in Kurt’s tone, or he ignores it completely. From Kurt’s first impressions of the guy, either possibility is equally likely.

“Dude, so not the point,” Ethan enthuses.

Kurt sighs. No, he supposes. It isn’t.

“Hey, man,” Ethan says, moving to put a hand on Kurt’s shoulder, but backing off at a glare from Agent Chang. “About you being, you know…”

Kurt freezes. _Get out, get out, get out, get out—_

“Whoa, dude, no,” Ethan immediately spots the expression on Kurt’s face. “I don’t have a problem with it – I was just going to tell you that it’s all cool.”

Something relaxes in Kurt’s back.

Kurt doesn’t know what he would have done if he’d had to go and put in a room change request on his first day, or worse, explain _why_ he needed one. It doesn’t really surprise him, though, now that he thinks about it. After the whole … _thing_ at his last school, the secret service has been near obsessive when it comes to vetting anyone and everyone who’s allowed within three feet of him. Ethan was probably researched and scrutinized to a ridiculous extent – any signs of homophobia and Kurt would have been more likely to room alone than with him.

“So,” Ethan says, and as a segue it could _not_ be more awkward. “Got any hobbies?”

Kurt shrugs. “Not really,” he says. “Music, I guess?”

“Oh, cool,” Ethan nods. “You play any instruments?”

“Harp, piano, violin, voice and a bit…” Kurt’s voice catches in his throat – _God, Kurt, if you play enough instruments to be able to say you play ‘a bit’ of something, you play too many instruments –_ before he swallows past it. “I play some guitar.”

“ _Dude,”_ Ethan says, eyes wide and impressed.

Kurt shrugs again. “I had a lot of free time when I was younger,” he says.

“I’m on the football team,” Ethan adds, as if Kurt couldn’t have guessed.

“You any good?” Kurt asks.

“I’d like to think so,” Ethan says. “We took state last year. You should come watch a couple of the games – the whole of Dalton is normally there, and the Warblers perform at halftime. It’s kind of awesome.”

Kurt doesn’t say, _I’m not such a fan of football or footballers right now,_ and he doesn’t say, _Who are the Warblers?_ Instead, he shrugs. “Maybe.”

* * *

 

News of Dalton’s latest claim to fame spreads across campus in a matter of seconds. It’s simple mathematics: teenagers plus the highest number of smartphones per capita of any school in Washington equals a terrifyingly efficient rumour mill. As quick as information tends to travel, however, the accuracy of said information tends to vary … a lot.

“I’m telling you,” David says emphatically. “New Kid is Kurt Hummel.”

Wes looks up from _Why Does E=mc 2? _long enough to shoot David a disbelieving look. “Where’d you get that?” he asks mockingly. “Did it come to you in a dream?”

David throws one of his shoes at Wes, who dodges the projectile easily and turns back to his book.

“I heard he was psychotic,” Jeff adds, looking up from his phone. “Tried to off himself in the school bathroom.”

“Who?” Nick asks distractedly, turning a page in _War and Peace._ “New Kid, or Kurt Hummel?”

Jeff shrugs. “Assuming they’re the same person, both.” He pauses. “Speaking of psychos, where’s Blaine?”

Reaching over Jeff to grab his stray shoe, David snorts. “You say that like any of us _want_ to know what he’s doing at any given time. I think Blaine has proven to us enough times that plausible deniability is very important.”

“The last time I did a favour for him, I ended up in jail,” Wes chips in. “In _France._ ”

“You just can’t let that go, can you, Wes?” comes a voice from the doorway. “I got you out again.”

Wes exhales deeply, gently closing his book. “Yeah,” he agrees readily, “after you put me there in the first place. I don’t even think I _want_ to know how I ended up in France anyway.”

Blaine Anderson is the worst type of trouble – the infectious kind, that spills into other people’s lives – and he knows it. Powerful, charismatic, and with a loose definition of morals, Blaine has enough issues that _any_ therapist would have a field day.

He’s also Wes’s best friend.

Wes questions his judgement every single damned day because of it.

“Hey Blaine,” David says calmly. “Been doing anything interesting?”

Blaine smiles. “Not if you guys want to keep plausible deniability,” he replies. “Did you guys hear about the new kid?”

Wes rolls his eyes. “Seriously?” he asks. “Don’t we have anything better to talk about?”

“No,” say Blaine, David, Nick and Jeff, all in unison.

“Creepy,” comments Wes. “So, what rumour did you hear, then, Blaine?”

Blaine takes a seat on the edge of Wes’s bed, shucking off his blazer almost immediately. “No rumour,” he says with a grin. “I spotted him coming out of the principal’s office.”

Blaine has their attention now, Wes can tell, and a part of him grudgingly admits that he’s hooked too.

Blaine grins. “He’s _really_ hot.”

Wes drops his head into his hands and _groans._

* * *

 

It would be a gross overstatement to say that Kurt _likes_ Dalton Academy. That’s not to say he _hates_ the school, more that he’s merely … apathetic. As much as any private school may try and boast its individuality, Kurt’s speaking from experience when he says that that’s really not the case. Differing Latin mottos and uniforms aside, the underlying factors are all the same. Rich, self-entitled elitists, enough privilege to choke on, and a healthy work ethic: Kurt knows _exactly_ what to expect.

Breakfast on Kurt’s first morning at Dalton adds another characteristic to the list: _gossip-mongers._

It’s like a scene from a movie. The moment Kurt enters the dining hall, everyone – and Kurt does mean _everyone_ – falls silent. Kurt can feel the weight of a thousand pairs of eyes on him as he selects his low-calorie breakfast, wishing not for the first time that he was back at McKinley with Finn.

But that hadn’t worked out so well for him either, Kurt reflects.

It takes the period of time from Kurt entering the dining hall to the moment he sits down for chatter to start up in the hall again.

All the way through the meal, it’s as though there’s some weird bubble around Kurt. No one joins him at his table – not even Ethan, who makes an apologetic face at him as he deposits himself at a table of like-bodied jocks – except for Agent Chang, who, now that Kurt thinks of it, is probably the cause of his solitude. Nothing says _back the fuck off_ like a man that could kill you sixteen ways without breaking a sweat.

Kurt sighs and disposes of his tray.

What a fantastic start to his day.

It gets worse.

* * *

 

First period algebra is a test of Kurt’s phenomenal reserves of patience.

Second period US history is an utter bore.

Third period French is tolerable – barely.

It’s fourth period English Literature and Media Studies when everything crumbles to pieces.

Kurt knows that he’s going to hate the class the moment he walks into the classroom and sees an absence of desks – the chairs are arranged in a horseshoe, around two chairs at the centre – and realises that this is one of those teachers who are _trying._ Sure enough, the teacher introduces herself as Ms. Pike-Jameson – “Ms. PJ, if you will, okay?” – and announces that their lesson plan that day is going to be _unconventional_ – her word, not Kurt’s.

“So, how many of you watch talk shows?” Ms. PJ starts off the lesson by asking.

Kurt watches as a smattering of hands are held in the air. Ms. PJ makes a face like she’s counting them before nodding.

“So, I’m sure all of you are aware of the structure of interviews – the roles that the interviewer and interviewee must fall into, right?” she goes on. “There is always at least a subtle divide between the two players in the interview, and a good interviewer or interviewee will know how to stick to these constraints and still make their point.”

Kurt resists the urge to roll his eyes – hard. He probably knows more about interview-etiquette than everyone else in this room combined.

“So,” Ms. PJ goes on, “I thought we could start the day off with a demonstration. I’ve got a video set up – some clips of the more interesting interviews from the recent election – and I thought we could watch them, have a bit of a discussion, then try out some of the techniques ourselves.”

And just like that, Kurt knows which interview she’s going to show. It hadn’t been his choice to do it, just like so many of the other things he’d had to do during the re-election campaign, but the day the scandal broke, Jacob Ben Israel had turned up outside of glee practice and shoved a microphone into his face. Kurt had felt so completely blindsided by it all that he’d ended up stuttering through confused half-answers.

Ms. Sylvester – his dad’s campaign consultant – had been so angry when the amateur interview had surfaced on a major news network, but Kurt had just felt numb.

He still feels numb, he realises dumbly.

A part of him distantly wonders if Ms. PJ is even aware that he’s in this class, that they’re going to be showing an interview that tore his life apart – almost tore his father’s career apart – and wonders if she even cares. (She probably doesn’t care.)

Kurt swallows deeply as the opening sequence rolls. Oh, God. _They’re going to dissect his interview technique in his English class._

A hand drops lightly down on his shoulder and Kurt looks back to see Agent Chang nodding towards the door, intent clear. _We can leave._ Kurt shakes his head. He can get through this – he already lived it once.

Just as Kurt predicted, the shaky video footage loads, and suddenly he’s looking at a picture of himself from three months ago, hopelessly naïve and falsely self-assured, and suddenly he’s looking at the journey of how he became who he is now, all over again, and Kurt was wrong. There’s a difference between living through something once and coming out of it stronger, and being dragged back to that moment, to the fear, to the start of the cloying sweat across his skin.

Kurt can’t be here, but he’s rooted to his chair, as the him of three months ago falls apart on screen.

Kurt doesn’t even register Agent Chang hoisting him out of his chair and leading him from the room until he’s crouched on the floor in the hallway, head between his knees, breathing heavily.

Oh, God.

“Do I need to call your father?” Agent Chang asks softly.

Kurt shakes his head and draws in another breath.

“Your brother?”

Kurt shakes his head again.

“A medical professional?” asks Agent Chang dryly.

“Just—” Kurt pants, “need—to breath.”

It takes Kurt fifteen minutes to slow his pulse back down, and to normalise his intake of air. Afterwards he feels drained, like he’s just run a mile, and his lungs are aching from exertion. When he looks up, stood next to Agent Chang is a … boy. Student. Young man.

“I’m Wesley – Wes, really – Montgomery,” the boy introduces himself. “Ms. Pike-Jameson wanted to know if you’re coming back from class. She said, and I quote, ‘If he doesn’t, I’ll have to write it up as an unauthorised absence.’” Wes smiles suddenly. “Between you and me, I’d go back in. Blaine just got this look on his face like he’s about to go all SJW on someone’s ass.”

Kurt pushes himself up on shaky legs, earning a questioning look from Agent Chang. He gives Agent Chang a look back that reads, _Shut up._

“I’m Kurt,” he says, sticking his hand out to Wes.

Wes takes the hand as if Kurt hadn’t just had to be dragged out of class by a secret service agent. “I’m pretty sure I knew that already,” he says. He nods towards the closed door of the classroom. “Fair warning, Blaine can be a bit… Well, you’ll see.”

Kurt isn’t quite sure what to make of that, or of this _Blaine_ guy, but he follows Wes back into the classroom to find another student sat at the front of the horseshoe, opposite Ms. PJ. He’s relaxed back into the chair, the edges of his lips quirked upwards in an expression that’s kind of terrifying. This must be Blaine, Kurt’s brain supplies.

If Kurt were looking closely, he’d probably think Blaine handsome, with his dimpled cheeks and his messy black hair. But he’s not looking. Closely, at least.

“Wes,” Ms. PJ greets, “and…” Kurt watches her eyes widen in something – realisation or recognition – and thinks, _huh, she didn’t know._

“Kurt,” Kurt says tightly.

“Kurt,” Ms. PJ nods. “Blaine and I were just about to do a demonstration of an interview for the class.”

Blaine catches Kurt’s eye and _winks._

What. The. Actual. Hell.

“So, I’m going to be the interviewee here,” Ms. PJ explains, “and Blaine’s going to be playing the part of interviewer. If you two want to take a seat, we’ll start.”

Kurt files himself back into his empty seat, and catches sight of Wes dropping into place next to a black student. There’s a brief pause, then, it starts.

“So, Miranda,” Blaine says. “I can call you Miranda, right?” He doesn’t wait for her answer before asking, “You’re married, am I correct?”

Ms. PJ nods. “Yes,” she says. “For close to six years now.”

If Kurt weren’t watching intently, he would think that Blaine’s expression had softened. “How did you two meet?”

“At college,” Ms. PJ answers. “We shared a sociology class.”

“And what’s your husband’s name?”

“George.”

Blaine nods, like he’s considering all of this. “And would you say that you and George have a happy relationship?”

Ms. PJ frowns, as if she can’t quite understand this line of questioning, but she does eventually reply with a soft, “Of course.”

Blaine smiles, but it looks fake. “Did you have any other relationships before you met George?”

“A couple of boyfriends in high school,” Ms. PJ says.

“A couple?” Blaine frowns. “How many?”

Ms. PJ shrugs. “I don’t know. Eight or nine?”

“So you were somewhat promiscuous in high school,” Blaine deduces, nodding seriously.

Kurt can feel every jaw in the class room drop at the statement. He looks over the room at Wes, who looks to be quashing down on a smile.

“What?” Ms. PJ sputters. “No—”

“But you just told me that you had multiple partners throughout your time there,” Blaine says.

“That’s not what I—”

“Fine,” Blaine agrees readily. “Allow me to rephrase. How many sexual partners have you had over the course of your lifetime?”

“Mr. Anderson—” Ms. PJ starts, voice hitting a warning tone.

“ _Please_ ,” Blaine cuts in flatly. “Call me Blaine.” He doesn’t so much as pause for breath before he continues with his questioning. “Is your previous sexual history a point of contention in your marriage?”

More sputters meet this question. “No, of course not!”

“So you admit to having a colourful sexual history,” Blaine states. “Do you and George engage in bondage? Exhibitionism? Power play? Sex with multiple partners—”

“Mr. Anderson,” Ms. PJ says, voice low. “This line of questioning is—”

“None of my business? Completely inappropriate?” Blaine completes without so much as missing a beat. “You’re right. Neither your marriage nor your sex life are _any_ of my business, and they are _far_ from appropriate topics of discussion for the classroom. So, my last question for you, Ms. Pike-Jameson, is this: what sort of double standard makes the gender of Kurt Hummel’s preferred romantic partner _fair game_?”

* * *

 

“I can’t believe you just did that,” Wes tells Blaine, laughing.

Blaine shrugs. “I got an A,” he says.

“You got detention,” David points out.

“Still got an A.”

Wes rolls his eyes. “You’re going to get yourself into trouble one day,” he states. “More so than you already do.”

Blaine grins.

“You didn’t have to do that,” comes a voice from behind them.

Blaine turns in conjunction with Wes and David, shrugging slightly at the student – Kurt Hummel, New Kid, _very hot_ New Kid – stood there.  “Ms. Pike-Jameson didn’t have to forget all two years of her sensitivity training in the process of one ill-advised lesson plan,” he says. “I’m Blaine Anderson.”

Kurt quirks an eyebrow. “I’d gathered,” he says dryly. “It probably goes without saying, but I’m Kurt Hummel.”

Blaine smiles at that. “Charmed,” he says. “Did you want to eat lunch with us?” he asks. “I can tell these two are gearing up for a lecture about respecting authority figures, so I figure it would probably be nice to have a buffer.”

Kurt eyes Wes and David balefully. “Is he always so…”

“Arrogant?”

“Cocksure?”

“Disrespectful?”

“Full of himself?”

“Bad at choosing friends,” Blaine mutters.

Wes and David share a look. “Yes,” they say in unison.

Kurt just sort of … stares. “I was going to say ‘polished’.”

* * *

 

Blaine’s group of friends is, in a word, loud. Wes takes pity on Kurt about thirty seconds into lunch and rushes him through introductions, accompanied by some less than complimentary commentary.

“That one there, with the shock of blond hair – that’s Jeff. Sterling, that is. We don’t talk to him because his family made their money this generation—”

“Oh boo-hoo. I’ll be sure to shed a tear next time I’m flying in my private jet.”

“The boy he’s sat next to is Nick Duval – you’ve probably seen some of the movies that his father stars in. He did the _Tipping Point_ films, if you’ve heard of them. Then, there’s David Thompson – he’s in Media and Lit with us – and we don’t talk to _him_ because he’s the local charity case—”

“Kindly fuck off, Wes.”

“And there’s me, Wes, who you already know, and Blaine here is Blaine Anderson, and he’ll ruin your life.”

“For the last time, Wes, I _got you out again_!”

They’re lively in a way that reminds Kurt of the New Directions, and he’s suddenly hit with a pang of longing. He thinks back to Finn – his brother, and the last words they’d said before Kurt left for Dalton were _traitor_ and _I don’t owe you anything_ respectfully – and back even further to Santana, and how he gets that same sharp stab of _danger_ when he looks at Blaine.

Blaine.

Kurt doesn’t know what to think of Blaine.

There’s a certain romance attached to the idea of a white knight, Kurt reflects, even an unconventional once such as Blaine. It doesn’t take much for Kurt to fall. All Finn had to do was pick up his books after some asshat threw him into a locker in junior high – _yeah, and look how well that turned out_ , Kurt’s mind supplies – and Blaine has already got the ‘rescue’ part down.

Just—Kurt looks at Blaine and sees a wild card. Kurt has met enough politicians to recognise their core traits in anyone, even someone as young as Blaine, and it’s undeniable that he holds his hand close to his chest.

Kurt doesn’t do wild cards.

“Does anyone have AP Chemistry next?” Kurt asks the table suddenly. When they stare at him, he starts to feel the colour rising in his cheeks. “I’m sorry, it’s just the map I was given doesn’t include the science department and I really don’t want to get lost—”

“I can show you the way,” Blaine interrupts. “You’re with Doc Martin, right?” He makes a beckoning gesture, and Kurt hands over his timetable. Blaine looks it over, then nods. “Awesome,” he says. “I’m next door in bio. If you want, I can meet you afterwards to take you to your music class – we have that one together.”

“I’d like that,” Kurt says quietly, dropping his eyes.

Kurt doesn’t do wild cards.

Kurt does steady friendships. He does trust. He does stubbornness.

He … doesn’t know what he’s supposed to do anymore.

Above everything else, Kurt does _survival._ He gets through it all and holds his head fucking high, and _dares_ you to come at him with everything you’ve got.

So, even if Kurt doesn’t do wild cards, he may just need one.

Kurt smiles charmingly at Blaine.

And, well, Kurt has met enough politicians to be able to recognise their core traits in anyone, even himself.

**Author's Note:**

> Come talk to me on tumblr! I'm daswarschonkaputt over there. :)


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